PS 

3537 

•W66F3 




FAGOTS 
of CEDAR 

B Y IVAN SWiFt Poet of 
the North. (Second Edition) 








In Michigan 



FAGOTS OF CEDAR 

Out of the North & 
Blown by the Winds 
& Ashes and Embers 



IPltA Titles old and new not Contained in the Original 
Limited Edition 



By IVAN SWIFT 




FromTHE WILLOWS SHOP near 
Clintonville, Oakland County, Michigan 
Sold also by the author at Little Traverse Bay 

M CM IX 



Copyright 1909 
By Ivan Swift 



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tel 




LiaRARYcf CONGRESS 
Two Cooies Received 

juN (i ^b^^ 

Copvntnl entry _ 



DEDICATED TO THE BEAUTY OF OLD 

TRADITION AND THE PROMISE 

OF NEW DEMOCRACY 



For the privilege of printing these verses 
in book-form acknowledgement is due 
The Independent, The Outlook, Sun- 
set, Recreation, Outers' Book, Field 
AND Stream, The Midland, American 
Lumberman, The Comrade and Chicago 
American, in which together, most of the 
titles originally appeared. 



CONTENTS 

A Swallow on a Telegraph-wire 

In Michigan 

Home 

Song of the Cedar-maker 

Stage of the Woods 

The Old Courier-de-Bois 

The Timber Wolves 

Gods of the Ki-jik-on 

The Plaint of the Brook-trout 

The Pleasure of the Hour 

The Woodman to the River 

Sprite of the Po-tog-on-og 

Seal of the North 

The Way of the North 

De Fishair of de Sish-ca-wet 

In Wild Americay 

Crime of Land 

Robbins'-Sidin' Farm 

Sunset of My Years 

Horse of Pete Lareau 

Wage of the Wilsons 

Assassination of the King 

Pictures up in Readmond 

If I were Pan 

Along the Harbor Shore 

To a Grosbeak in the Garden 

The Humming-bird 

Autumn 



The Sun Sets Cold 

The Coprid Beetle 

Call of the Winds 

Liberty Bell 

Japan the Beautiful 

The Dragon City 

After the Days of Labor 

The Pilgrim 

After the Troublous Winds 

Reiique- Poetique 

Memorial 

Venice 

To George Gordon Byron 

My Taper's Recompense 

Louisiana 

Gates of Brass 

The Odalisk 

Cloister Beads 

Retribution 

Charity 

Thy Love the Pilot Be 

The Soul of the Sarlyk 

Repair 

Heredity 

The Absent Heart of Me 

My Heart is Home 

Unto the Least 

The Poet Vagrant 

The Larger Dream 



A SWALLOW ON A 

TELEGRAPH 

WIRE 

BATHED in red sun and gladdened by 

the wind 
A swallow sat upon a span of wire. 
He chirped the hours away with idle mind 
And preened the feathers of his staid attire. 

The news of all the world ran through his 

feet— 
The word of birth and sound of wedding- 
bells; 
The cry of pain and laughter of the street ^ 
Earth' s sorrow and the si?i that life compels. 

Whether the message were of ill or good ^ 
A momenf s joy or grieving bitter-long; 
Of blatant clamoring or solitude — 
The swallow shot to earth the one glad song. 

So might I share the swallow' s faithful 

hearty 
And know the shadow and the light of life — 
Td go on singing through the busy jnart^ 
And find a symphony in mortal strife. 



Out of the North 



IN MICHIGAN 

SLOW-YIELDING Nymphs 
Evade unpandered Satyrs here, 
And sands unconquered laugh at man's 

invention ; 
Bright clouds drive darker shadows, 
And the bay-breeze bears heavy odors — 
Odor-offerings of ragged pine 
And spruce. 

The white-birch single on the hillside, 
The hemlocks and I 
Are friends 
In Michigan. 

Nature's fingers 

Seem to play upon my strings 

In minor harmonies up here — 

Where shells of convents shelter 

Echoes only, 

And the last Indian has laid 

His flints and legends 

On the grave-mound of the older time 

In Michigan. 



HOME 

IN the evening after the rain, 

At home with the North and the trees, 
I turn from the world again 

And find me a world in these. 

I searched for a joy in the lands 

Of castle and kopje and sun, 
And found what I sought — in the sands 

Where the journey was lightly begun. 

The glories of continents seen 
And all that my ears have heard, 

Are lost in a garden's green 
And the chirp of a nested bird. 



^ C!3 



SONG OF THE CEDAR-MAKER 

DEEP is the wall of the cedar, 

And tough is the take of the Jack; 
But a man with a girl must feed her. 
And the fire must burn in the shack. 
Ax, spud, saw, steel! 
Trim, mark, cut, peel I 

We tackled the world and shook her — 
A wench with an eye for hate; 

We winked at the woods — and took her. 
For better and bunk and plate. 

CHO. 

Man is a thing for labor, 

Or what's the game of the trees? 

The saw is as good as the saber, 
And tallies are made with these — 

CHO. 

Our talk ain't the regular Latin — 
But we cut to the cedar's core! 

Our manner '11 stand some battin' — 
But we pay for our beans and more ! 

CHO. 

Tough is the take of the cedar, 
And rough is the lift of the Jack; 

But a man with a wife must feed her. 
And the kettle must boil in the shack. 

CHO. 



Continued 

A chew for the church and the nation ! 

We work — and the scale is right; 
Sweat be our soul's salvation, 
And freedom is Saturday night! 

Whack, cracky chip, strip ! 
Zim, zoWy zip, zip! 
Ax, spud, saw, steel! 
Chop! Mark! Cut! Peel! 

Camp Ki-jik, 1907 



CtJ Ct3 



STAGE OF THE WOODS 

The glow of the moon's low rim 
Creeps up through the trees to the sky; 

And the night is a deep, sweet hymn 
To the lone doe sauntering by. 

A. frail, lithe shape at the spring — 
A quick, strange flash in the night! 

A leap and a keen, hot sting! 

And Death walks weird in the light. 



THE OLD COURIER-DE-BOIS 

A COMMON man was PereGilbault/^ 

So will the townsmen say, 
**A sodden leaf left by the snow 

Upon the summer way; — 

**A relic of the older time, 

He crooned of moldy years. 
Unknown to fame of good or crime — 

And sleeps unmourned of tears." 

And this the tribute of the world 
To labor's humbler men — 

' 'A thing the jesting winds have whirled 
On earth and off again ! ' ' 

What tho he spread the dauntless sail. 
And quit the shame of kings — 

To break the rugged forest trail 
And dwell with silent things? 

What tho he turned the blades to hoes. 
And tamed the savage breeds? — 

fFe hold their homes! No bugle blows 
A woodman's homely deeds. 

He made a garden, sowed a seed — 
But we have plucked the flower! 

He laid the faith, we made the creed — 
What boots his lingering hour? 



Continued 

No mausoleum marks his grave. 

No will divides his gold; 
No pension soothes a whimpering slave, 

His office none will hold. 

His tomb is but the earth he trod. 
His wealth — the poet's heart; 

His gift — a love for man and God, 
His post — the honest part. 

A common Man was Pere Gilbault, 
And so the world must say — 

**A sodden leaf left by the snow. 
Upon the summer way!" 

1906 



Ct3 C93 



THE HUNTED ONES 

The habit of all of your mothers 
Was flight from a stronger race, — 

Who knows but the zeal of our brothers 
Is zest to your joy of the chase? 



THE TIMBER WOLVES 

WE are the wolves of the timber land 

Me and the Black and the Bay! 

We work by the day for a pittance of pay, 

Pork'for the man and the horses' hay! 

''Slaves," you say, 

*'Of the skid and the sleigh!" 

It's the echoed word 

Of the world you've heard; 

For the nags and me 

Are the wind and the tree. 

And no7ie so free ! — 

We 're czars of the lumberin' band! 

We sound for the sun his reveille — 
With the clank of the loggin'-chain. 
And the bitin' pain of the frost disdain ! 
We warm to the work and won't com- 
plain. 
Chuck your Floridy flowers! 
Michigan woods for ours ! 
Hills of snow and a hammerin' bell ! 
Four thousan' scale as hard as hell ! 
Get up. Jack! Together, Nell! 

Break your tugs! 

Shake your lugs ! 

Your frozen steam 

Is a Cuban dream. 
When you sleep in the straw with me ! 



Continued 

The slaves are rollin' the logs of towns ! 

Give 'em the card they've drawn! 

The blood and brawn and the liquor-o'- 

Dawn 
Are enough for us — we're up and gone! 
A ten-league run 
Is a race with the sun. 

The horses' keep 

And a cave for sleep, 
(Better a bear than a shiverin' sheep) 

Meat and bread 

And a blanket-bed — 
And the prayers for more we leave to 
clowns ! 

To the hags o' storm my song is hurled ! 
My poem 's the creak of the hick'ry rack ! 
The lash's crack, in the woods rung back. 
Is a fire in the veins o' the Bay an' Black ! 

How they dance, 

And heave and prance! 

Oh, wild and free. 

We're comrades three. 

Born of wind and wave ! 
Little to lose or save — 
What of the grave ? 
The boss of Care is the king of the world! 

1904 



THE GODS OF THE KI-JIK-ON 

THE cedar is thick on the Ki-jik-on, 
And a goose is the queen of the sky ; 
But the king of the swamp is a Buster 

John, 
And the gentleman named is / ! 
The same to say, I handle the rein 
Of the huskies, Rock and Rob, 
And make the law to the timber's pain. 
A king is a man with a job! 

Haw, Rob! Hy, Rock! 

Mush, Brush! Duck your block! 

We snakes the sticks from dawn to night. 

And times it's under the Bear ; 

It's a bunk for bed and a badger's fight, — 

They's hides is made for wear. 

We can't get far and we don't see much 

But a hole to the top of the sky ; 

They's muck enough for a grave o' such. 

And we go so7ne, ever we die ! 

Hy, Rock! Gee, Rob! 

Hump! Jump! Chew your cob! 

They's many a stick in the ''Border of 

Hell," 
And thank ye to leave us stay ; 
For I am the king and the king is well. 
And the same for the Black and Bay. 



Continued 

The dam o' the nags has run in the clouds. 
Their sire in the wind o' the sea; 
So here is a laugh to the juniper shrouds. 
And luck to the pluckiest three ! 

Whoa, boys! Haw about! 

Back track! The hooter's out. 

1907 



C^ CJ3 



PLAINT OF THE BROOK-TROUT 

IN the unfollowed rivers of Dawn, 
Of the hundreds of ages ago, 

A motherhood mothered the spawn 
And gave us of freedom to grow. 

We lay on the golden bars 

And laughed at the witless fly ; 

We looked on the sun and the stars. 
And they came to us out of the sky. 

We drank of the spears of the rain 

And wheeled in the storm-dog's ring ; 

We knew of no peril or pain, 

Nor feared we a wandering thing. 

The Maker of water and land 

Stood watch of our joy of the pool ; — 
But we fell to the rod and the hand. 

And our faith was the faith of the fool ! 

Barbed were the wings of the flies. 
And meshes were laid to deceive ; 

The manners of man were lies 
That fish could never believe. 

He came as a nature-priest. 

With book — and with hook and gun ; 
But the lover of beauty was least. 

And the slaughter of fish was fun. 



Continued 

He cast our children ashore 

For the greed of the bittern's beak ; 
And caught to his need and more — 

Pursuing from creek to creek. 

And thus were we led and decoyed. 
In shallow and pool and bar; 

And thus was our faith destroyed, 
In mortal and sun and star. 

We cherish our gift of life, 

And keep from the reach of men 

Till wiser in ways of strife — 
But man will be wiser then ! 

BoYNE Creek, 1907 ^ 



Cji cfi 



THE PLEASURE OF THE HOUR 

WHEN a curtain in the sky, 
With the sun a-seeping through. 

Is a-taunting me to try ' 

What a fisherman can do — 

Would you have me stay at home, 
Reading poems in a tome, 

While I water at the mouth and live a lie ? 

For the ringing of the reel 
And the rythm of the line 
Is the filling of the creel 
With the pleasure of the hour when we 
dine! 

I have a tender feeling for the fish, 

And I've got to be forgiven for a lot ; 
But I love 'em all to pieces — in the dish, 
And my feeling's sort o' special when 
they're hot. 
Oh, the very best of wishes 
For the sorr}^ little fishes. 
And a hoping they'll be happy in the pot! 

For the r-r-rattle of the reel 
And the r-r-running of the line 
Is the filling of the creel 
With the pleasure of the hour when we 
dine! 



THE WOODMAN TO THE RIVER 

UPON THE DROWNING OF A FAVORITE DOG 

FAREWELL, false Ki-jik-on! 

I bide with thee no more. 
Forget that I am gone 

To seek a kinder shore. 

I 've had my joy of thee, 

And fain would yet remain ; 

But, innocently free. 

Thy will hath cost me pain. 

Thou' St borne my rod and boat 
Through many a truant hour — 

Where now 7nay no man float! 
No?' even reed o?' flow ei' I 

I learned to love thee best, 

And grieve to wish thee ill; — 

Farewell, forever, lest 
I come to love thee still ! 

The wall of cedar stoops 

Above thy winding banks; 
The tangled red-bush droops. 

And they may give thee thanks. 



KE-ZHEEK-ON 



SPRITE OF THE PO-TOG-ON-OG 

OUT of the fog of a Michigan bog — 
A hump and a bump! 
And a thump, thump, thump! 
It's never a bittern or blubbering frog 
CaUing a bug or a polly-go-wog — 
But the moan of the ghosts of the 
Po-tog-on-og 1 

Tlump ! tlump ! tlump ! 

It's not the clog of Gog-ma-gog, 
Come up with a jump 
And a clump, clump, clump! 
Or the gutteral blurt of a beagle dog. 
Nor yet the grunt of a Jibway hog — 
But the wail of hosts of the 
Po-tog-on-og ! 

Tlump! tlump! tlump! 

Time will jog and jump his cog, 
But never can trump 
The stump, stump, stump, 
That gulped the fog for a morning grog! 
The spook of a corn-mill made of a log 
Will guard at the grave of the 
Po-tog-on-og ! 

Tlump! tlump! tlump! 

1905 



SEAL OF THE NORTH 

AGES ago when the Dawn first lifted, 
Audrey, you lay in the far lake-land — 
Under the pines where the sands were 

sifted, 
And touched my untouched hand. 

Your hair was there as the beach-grass 

blowing; 
Your eyes — and the sea-wet stones were 

those ; 
Your flesh was one with the soft surf 

flowing. 
Your blush with the frail wild-rose. 

Your blood was drained from the North- 
sun's setting, 

Your grace from the virgin-white birch- 
tree; 

You breathe with the pure, cool breeze 
begetting 

The Spring's sweet ecstasy! 

Your lyric laugh and the tears, all tender,. 
Keep to the deeps of a nature-heart 
Long reft in the snow-land's still, cold 

splendor; — 
You in the moons apart! 

December 1906 



THE WAY OF THE NORTH 

THE spruce stands dark in the north- 
woods snow. 

And the lamps of the log-shack camp 
burn low; 

For the crew goes dry 

When the pay comes down, 

And the long hill-trail leads by 

To the lights of the taverns' town. 

There is friends in the woods — as woods 

friends go — 
And a Halfbreed John and a Bigfoot Joe 
Was a pair in a bunk 
And mess-mate chums; — 
But there be friends takes the hunk. 
And there be friends gets the crumbs ! 

In the taverns' town on a New Years 

night 
There's a girl and a drink and a curse-set 

fight; 
And a Halfbreed John 
And a Bigfoot Joe 
Turn friendship out with a gun, 
And boast of a boasting foe. 

The long hill-trail leads back to the camp 
When the dawn's dim glow is the woods- 
man's lamp; — 



Continued 

But a bunk left bare 

And the mess-plates down 

Is a creepish sign — Beware 

Of the lights of the taverns' town! 

The trail-side bush and the stars might 

know 
Of the purse and the corpse of a Bigfoot 

Joe; 
But the shame-paled face 
Of the midday sun 

Turned off from the blood-cursed place 
Of the crime that the night saw done ! 

But a ghost took scent of the snow-packs' 

track 
Stained red — and a Halfbreed John came 

back 
To the sanguine cry 
And the posse's blow; — 
And the fir trees point to the sky 
That a corpse hangs black below ! 

Camp Ki-jik, 1908 



DE FISHAIR OF DE SISH-CA-WET 

Ah ain't t'ink 'bout dees mill-job here, — 
Ah dream an' dream an' dream! 

Two, t'ree year more de devil' spear 
Be pike me down de stream. 

A'm have some diffrant t'ing to t'ink, 

' Bout bettair day went by ; 
When all de nord-man feesh an' drink 

And don't be 'fraid to die. 

Ah b'lieve Ah'm den 'bout twenty-five. 

Be marry firs' — one son; 
Far up de nord-shore Ah be drive, 

Where Pigeon Rivair run. 

De lak be fill' wid feesh long 'go; 
Ah bring de firs' pon'-net. 

An' teach de Injin — course Ah know- 
To catch de sish-ca-wet. 

Dees sish-ca-wet be kin' o' trout. 
She mak' good feed, you boil; 

Ma wife pack barrel, tak' heem out. 
Dare's two eench bes' kin' oil! 

Eef Ah'm have save Ah don't pile slab 

For dollair quartair 'day; 
But how we know de Yankee grab 

An' all de trouts go 'way? 



Continued 

Well, well, who care eef all be spen' ? 

Ah tell you dees be sure — 
Ah geeve you gold, you geeve mefrien' — 

Ah'm reesh! an' you be poor! 

Ah wish Ah be young man some more- 
' Bout twenty-five — you bet. 

Ah tak' de lak' to ol' nord-shore 
An' tra ma luck dare yet ! 

But Ah be old, an' pile de board 

From sun-up till she set; 
An' in ma min' Ah pack ten cord 

Dem sam' blani' sish-ca-wet ! 

But aftair 'while de Frenchman die; 

Den trout swim on de beash, 
De franc-piece rain down in de sky, 

An' every man be reesh! 

1903 



IN WILD AMERICAY 

MY name is Nick O'Reilley 

And I come from Ballybay, 

But I 'ave't saw old Ireland 

In many a weary day; 

For I'm workin' in the lumber-woods 

Of wild Americay, 

And I've got a bunch of babies here 

Behooves me for to stay. 

I miss the bogs of Erin 

(But I've got the swamps of Ayr) 

And the murphies in the counties 

(But the spuds is pretty fair). 

The sarpents is leary 

As the frogs be over there. 

But they's fairies in a plenty 

And the ghosts be ever)'' where. 

For the whiskey of old Ireland 
We've got a brand of booze. 
But the laws o' camp is rigorous. 
And them I don't abuse. 
They's a Sunday game o' poker 
As I'm likelier to lose — 
But the bill I pays in blarney 
That's a coin they can't refuse! 

My feet is stuck in Michigan, 
Me heart for Erin longs; 



Continued 

But I works for Yankee silver 
And I sings the Irish songs. 
The woman lays furninst the pines, 
And here the bairns belongs; 
So I feeds thim with the music 
Of the silver skidding-tongs ! 

Camp Ki-jik, 1907 



^ Ct3 



THE CRIME OF LAND 

AH come dees place. Ah b'lieve it be 

'Bout Forty-t'ree or four; 
Den mos' de folks be cedar tree, 

Grow 'round de harbor shore. 

Ah be de gov'ment carpentair 

To buil' de Injin school — 
So dey can teach de red man's heir 

How he can mak' de fool ! 

De Injin he's good fix dat tam, 

She be de happy man. 
Dey live lak fam'ly, all de sam; 

De chief keep hoi' de Ian'. 

Dey raise de corn and some potac, 

Dey have de wood an' feesh 
An' deer, an' blanket for dair back — 

Dat's all de man can weesh! 

Den after 'while some l?Ianc-{2iCe come 

Wid bag of ten-cent grease; 
Dey t'ink he's God ! Dey drink hees rum 

And smoke de pipe-of-peace ! 

An' dare ees where de game begin, 

An' dare de Injin lose ! 
He's geeve hees farm for pint of gin 

And pair ol' Yankee shoes! 



Continued 

Dare where Ah buil' de Injin school, 
De white man plant hees house; 

He's be de robbair-cat to rule — 
De Injin be de mouse! 

Now day's cry in de swamp for bread, 

An' lak to fin' dair f rien' . 
Ah guess een hell, when dey be dead, 

Dey find dair partnair den ! 

Dat man is in de devil's net 

'Fore he be in de sod! 
T)e hones' man ees bes' man yet — 

An' dat be sure as God! 

1903 



tj3 Ct3 



THE SUNSET OF MY YEARS 

SOMETIMES when I'm a-settin' here, 
a-waitin' for the night. 

The sun is stoopin' over low and spread- 
in' of his Hght 

On the puddles in the road there, and the 
reachin' shadders fold 

Down around the corn and popples that 
is throwin' back the gold. 

ThenI 'magine that a voice I know is 
callin' home the steers 

From the woods along the gulley — and 
it sort o' starts the tears. 

It was nip an' tuck with us awhile a-try- 

in' to get along, 
And I calculate it made the bonds a-tween 

us middlin' strong. 
Him an' me had pulled together — yes — 

for more 'an forty years. 
An' reg'lar, most, as that old clock I'd 

heard him call the steers. 
Then one evenin' while the shadders 

picked the gleanin's of the day, 
Alf, he heard a voice a-calHn', sort o' 

sweet, — an' went away! 
And I reckon that's the reason, in this 

sunset of my years. 
Why I wait for night to gather and I 

can't keep back the tears. 



ROBBINS'-SIDIN' FARM 

HAVE you ever been to Robbins'-Sidin* 

farm? 
That's down along the raihoad track a 

ways. 
Now there's a place as does a heart no 

sort o' harm. 
An' kind o' calls ye back to country days ! 

They's somethin' 'bout the stumpy feed- 
in' field 

As I draws you there an' keeps you settin' 
'round, 

While fleecy clouds by soothin' winds is 
reeled 

Off on the sky; an' shadders run acrost 
the rollin' ground. 

Down there's a shaggy sheep a-standin' 

still- 
To make a shadder on a limpin' lamb; 
An' some are nibblin' bushes on the hill 
Till evenin', then they f oiler, single-file, 

a leadin' ram. 

They's a clanky bell a-tinklin' now an' 

then. 
And a killdeer goes a-cryin' 'round a 

puddle — 



Continued 

Where you see a patch o' heaven, look- 
in' in — 

An' you're feelin' Hke your money-mak- 
in' wits was in a muddle 

An' you hadn't got a solitary sin! 

ROBBINS, 1902 



THE HORSE OF PETE LAREAU 

SACRE! you laugh ma ol' Paree? 

You t'ink she's sick to kill! 
Dees hoss make leetle sad, may be — 

But sick? — no more as Bill! 

I tell you ' bout dees horse, my boy : 

I feed him twenty year; 
She be ma frien', ma life, ma joy! 

I kill him now? — Dat's queer! 

I tak' Paree to circus t'ing 

' Bout fifteen year ago ; 
Dare be t'ree acre in de ring, 

An' plenty hoss to show. 



Continued 

I heech him in de sulkey dare 

An' pat him on de head — 
*'Dey's plenty competition here; 

Now show you don't be dead!" 

I tak' de rein an' hoi' him tight. 

An wait de signal gun ; 
De pistol shoot! Ma hoss step light! 

Sacre ! but how she run ! 

Den all de hoss spread out dere nose, 
De spark fly from de stone ! 

No odair hoss go fast like dose — 
'Cept dees, mayo//^ roan! 

Ma hoss he keep de inside track, 
An' make dat cirkees short ; 

In just t'ree mineet she be back. 
An' Paree hoi' de fort! 

An' den I'm have one odair try. 

I speak to him some more — 
*'If you be beat, mon cher^ I ciy; 

It make my spirit sore." 

I rub hees leg down wid de sponge. 

An' tak' de rein ma han'; 
She hear de gun, she make one lunge! 

You t'ink she understan'. 



Continued 

She go! She go! wid hundaird feet! 

Hees mane whip lak de flag ! 
She mak' dat cirkees — two mineet! — 

Behin' one odair nag. 

She feel dam sorry, dat Paree ! 

He hoi' hees head in shame. 
An' shet hees e3'e so he don't see 

Y>2Xfail go 'gainst hees name. 

Den I say, "Don't you mind, Paree- 
You don't be all to blame; 

You win de nex' one, sure, for me — 
An' dare we have de game! " 

An' den I see dat horse wake up. 
An' know she say "I will!" 

I geeve him drink, I take one cup — 
To show we be frien' still ; 

I sponge his leg; I smood his hair; 

I tak* ma seat behin'. 
She tremble lak de leaf, wid fear! 

An' I be 'fraid dat sign! 

I hoi' de line; I wait de shot; 

I say, "Be brave, ma boy!" 
But dees dam horse ! I guess I got 

One bass-wood duck deecoy ! 



Continued 

But dare's de gun! an' here's de gale! 

Dees hoss come out his grave ! 
She tak' de air! he's mad! he sail, 

Lak sea-gull on de wave! 

No frog be scare can jump lak dat! 

No fish can cut de sea 
So fas' she go I I lose ma hat ; 

But I say, *'Go! Paree!" 

She go lak blin' ! She hear no soun' 

Aftair she hear dat gun. 
She make t'ree acre — all way 'roun' — 

Gee Cry! — jus' half past one I 

Now what you t'ink 'bout dat, ma men? 

T 'rough all dese twenty year 
She be ma pal, ma pride, ma frien' ! 

I keel heem now? — Dat's queer! 

Cross Village, 1904 



Ctj Ct3 



THE WAGE OF THE WILSONS 

NONE shall forget that Sabbath Day 
When ten bold, skilless men 

Defied their God upon the Bay — 
And five returned again ! 

The schooner Coral — mark the name — 

On roistering pleasure bent, 
Swung to the breeze, despite the shame 

The warning church-bells lent. 

The frail ship sailed with eagle grace 
And gently whipping wings; 

And luffed, for wind, in pride-of-place 
Just off the bay-head springs. 

Upon the east, the rocks — what harm ? 

To westward, open sea ; 
In all the air a breathless charm, 

As on that day should be. 

Behind the drowsy fishing-town. 

Upon the bluff's high brow 
A lonely Indian, looking down. 

Mused o'er his Then and Now. 

There gazing off, as red-men will. 
He weighed the changing sky; 

And, save the schooner resting still. 
No more could he descry. 



Continued 

Within his heart he felt the tooth 

Of some mysterious hour; 
And toward the sea — in dismal truth — 

He caught the quickening lower! 

He knew the Great Lake squalls of old, 
And knew their demon ire — 

More ruthless than the northland cold 
Or raging forest-lire. 

And there upon the brooding bay. 

Without suspicion's care, 
Ten mortals and a vessel lay, 

With canvas all aglare ! 

The one man saw, the one man knew — 

And he of savage breed ; 
But forest-fleet the Indian flew 

To cry the fateful need. 

The storm came on in fury-burst! 

The bay leaped white with foam ! 
No boasting village-father durst 

To quit his sheltering home. 

But where was Wilson and his son. 

The humble fishing men? 
Look toward the east ! What see you run 

Like some mad water-hen ? 



Continued 

What landsman can believe his eye? — 

A pound-boat splits the air! 
A schooner wrecks — and ten men die ! — 

But Wilson's hope is there! 

The pleading wretches pray and gasp. 

And rise and plead again ! — 
And thank their God that they may grasp 

The hands of braver men. 

And five were saved and five were lost 

Upon that Sabbath Day ! — 
And this the retribution cost, 

So cleric men will say. 

Then what of Wilson and his son? 

Reward of gold is theirs; 
But "No!" they grieve, "What wage is 
won 

l^ut/ive lone widows^ tears?' ^ 

Little Traverse Bay, early. 



^ «! 



ASSASSINATION OF THE KING 

DARE'S de land — she lay lak serpent — 

Twenty mile out in de lake. 
She's be name de Isle of Beavair 

*Cause she's lak de dam dey make. 

I remembair Eighteen-Fifty, 
Den I'm fishing on dat shore; 

Most de people be dose Mormon 
Who don't stay dare any more. 

What's de reason dey's all scattair? 

I'm one of de man what know! 
If de fly go, dat is bettair 

Dan be freeze out by de snow! 

If you lak to know dis story, 

I can tell you what is true; 
Den you see how some de churchman 

Be no bettair dan de Jew. 

All de Mormon pay de ten-tax. 

All de Cat' lie, he refuse; 
So dey steal his net an' fish-boat. 

Cow an' sleigh an' snow-pack shoes! 

Many year de Frenchman stand dees — 
'Cause dat time dare be no law — 

Den de French and Injin contrac' 
An' de Cat' lie show de claw! 



Continued 

I can stick de stake in san' dare, 

Hundaird of dem, where dey's thieve 

Shoot down lak de dog, an' bury 
Wid no time for pray an' grieve! 

or De Strang be king dat Islan' — 
She's de smart man in de worl' ! 

He's be lawyer, pries' an' doctair. 
An' de black fox wid de girl! 

Fine blue eye an' yellow whisker! 

Straight lak tree, wid voice lak win' ! 
Sing de song an' play de fiddle, 

Pray de Lord an' mak de "tin! " 

Strang have only t'irteen woman. 
So he hunt for nodair wife! — 

Lak de Frenchman set he's pon'-net, 
Dey's some white-fish lose her life! 

Madame Bedfort be de beauty 

On de Island in dose day — 
So dees King sen' ofF de husban', 

Den he steal hees dame away ! 

When de news have reach to Guillam, 
Where he's trapping in de Nord, 

He's go mad an' swear de vengeance 
By de French an' by de Lord ! 



Continued 

In de spring de gov'ment cuttair 
She's be Ian' to Ol' St. Jame'. 

Den de captain send for Strang dare, 
See'f he know some smugglair' name. 

When de King come to de gang-plank, 
Hoi' hees head high in de air — 

Dare's two pistol-shot from fish-house ! 
Den de3^'s blood-spot in hees hair! 

I don't swear who kill de great man, 
But de cuttair sail away — 

Wid one F^'enchman for de deck-han^ 
When de sun go down dat day! 

1904 



^ ^ 



PI'TURES UP IN READMOND 

I'VE heerd about them paintin's from 
the Holland paintin' -school, 

Pi'turin' diggers in the taters, women 
washin' by a pool, 

And like o' that ; and folks a-hayin' wear- 
in' brogans made o' wood 

And a-doublin' over sickles that we're 
thinkin' ain't so good 

Now-a-days. And folks are sayin' that 
it's like your breathin' air 

Jest to look at them old pi'tures! I ain't 
doubtin' they are fair \ 

But I'm 'lowin' here in Readmon' they 
is things that's full as fine! — 

Mebbe not so durned old fashion, but 
they'll do, I guess, for mine! 

Now jest take a squint at Renie there, a- 

settin' on the bench: 
They's a scoop o' sunshine pourin' thru 

the trees and tryin' to drench 
Her and the berries she's a-sortin' and a- 

throwin' out the specks 
To the hens and chickens waitin' and a- 

cranin' of their necks! 



Continued 

The only chicken-fixin's that's a-stickin' 

'round her gown 
Is them patches of the sunlight that's a- 

comin' dancin' down — 
Golden crickets on her apern, faded blue, 

and in her hair, 
Like a swayin' ounch o' golden-rod it 

keeps a-playin' there ! 

The cullin's of the berries she's a-throw- 

in' to the chickens; 
But the berries on her lips! — Gee! if / 

could have the pickin's, 
At her feet I'd crow and cackle till I got 

a even peck! — 
Like a ragged, beggin' banty rooster, 

cranin' of his neck! 

1900 



Cj3 Ct3 



ALONG THE HARBOR SHORE 

I LIKE the days of northern Spring 
When leaves emerge the bud, 

The birches turn a tender green 
And maple-blossoms blood. 

A sail is golden in the sun, 

Against the purple hill; 
A gull is high on silent wing, 

The swallows nev^er still. 

Where westing sun and fog are met. 

Along the harbor's shore, 
An aged fisher reels a net 

And mutters primal lore. 

He is not of the Spring of life, 

Yet find we equal cheer; — 
He, that the old ship weathered through, 

I, that the new may clear. 

At Home, 1908 



C?3 Ctj 



IF I WERE PAN 

DEEP in the wood across the way, 
I dreamt that I was Pan today, 
And tuned me joyous pipes to play. 
The fronds came out to me, 
The nymphs and graces three — 
The world was all aglee ! 
For I was Pan and this was Spring! 

I played that I was Pan today 

And laughed at mortals on the way, 

But no man heard and none would stay. 

Their ears were sorely dull. 

And sad their eyes and full 

Of pelf and pride and mull! — 

And spring to them is never Spring ! 

I know that I was Pan a day. 

But would that I were Pan alway — 

With ears like his and eyes of May, 

To hear and feel and see ! 

Pipe tunes to bird and bee 

And set the world's heart free 

With laughter, love and light of Spring! 

I would if I were Pan. 



Cj3 Cjj 



A GROSBEAK IN THE GARDEN 

WHEN through the heaviness and clam- 
oring throng 
Of mortal ways I hear the mellow song 
Of birds, the birds seem sent to me. 
If this be my insanity, 
As men will measure it — so let it be ! 

When shadows that no will can drive 

away 
Entomb me — then no sermon blesseth 

day, 
More true and sweet than that pure note 
My ear hath caught afloat 
From out the garden grosbeak's fervent 

throat. 

Thou, crimson-caped messenger of God, 
Seem'st not to feel the thorned and bitter 

rod 
Of Life — thy hours are joyously beguiled 
With melodies so wild! 
In sooth, thy creed is trusting as a child! 

Full knowing that thy living days are brief 
Thou grudgest even an hour for sober 

grief; 
Thy poems are scattered free, without a 

name, 



Continued 

Nor hast thou thought of fame ! 

Is my unpaid aspiring yet my blame ? 

The world is wide 'twixt man and worlds 

divine, 
And hearts are dull to such a song as thine ; 
But / have heard. Sing on, from tree 

to tree. 
As thou hast sung to me, — 
And more shall find the God that guid- 

eth thee ! 

1906 



^ ^ 



THE HUMMING-BIRD 

WHEN Summer sobs her languor to 
the Sky, 
And restive spirits vex the ways of men 
In vain emprise ; within my garden then 
Will I elect to let the world go by, 
And watch the humming-bird. Not seen 
to fly, 
He comes, and vanishes, and comes 

again 
And sips the sweets of honeysuckles 
when 
Their lips are frail — but leaves them not 
to die. 

So I have thought how good it were to be 
This ruthful corsair, bent on such pur- 
suit. 
Against the wear of my foreplanning 
hours; — 
How good it were to live thus liegelessly 
Upon the world's unreckoned blossom- 
loot — ' 
Yet spare from any harm its guarded 
flowers ! 

1907 



AUTU MN 

BURDEN banked with many an autumn 

flower. 

The hills of aster, golden-rod and tyme 

Exhale the spell of some old Persian 

" • rhyme 

Revealed from parchments of the ages' 

dower. 
The purple mists enshroud the solemn 
hour. 
The throats of Nature hum a requiem 

chime; 
The pageant pauses with the dirge sub- 
lime, 
And Life is laid beneath the burning 
bower. 

When Autumn flaunts her symbols of 
the dead. 
And darkness trespasses on hours of 
light; 
When frosts foray with banners gold and 
red. 
And all the future dawns are robed of 

night — 
Then quits my soul her habit's clamor- 
ing flight 
And turns to make her peace and funeral 
bed! 

1903 



Blown by the Winds 



THFj sun sets cold on Weicatnp Lake, 
And the Fall^ with her frost-wet mouthy 

Su7nmons the drake frofn his home in the 
brake^ 
And the wings of the flock cleave south. 

The warmth isfledfrotn the bare brown hills ^ 
And the light from the famished field; 

A man' s heart fills where the mad crowd 
wills, 
And the town takes over his yield. 



THE COPRID BEETLE 

THE dragon drinks at the fount of noon, 

The cicades sing in the tree; 
The night moth sips at the flower-of-the- 

moon — 
But only a coprid beetle am I, 

And a coprid beetle I 'Id be. 

They plume and prate of a sun and star. 
And the work of a worm called Man; 

But the road to the realm is rough and far. 

There 's work in the dark and dirt for me- 
I '11 be what a beetle can. 

My mother a coprid beetle born — 

My sons will be no more. 
We work, nor worry; no work we scorn. 
There's peace in the crypt of the coprid 
cave — 

What more in the Ultimate Shore ? 

A coprid they carved me in agate and gold. 

On a Pharaoh's neck I lay; 
They put us away in a cave of old, — 
And I carry a text of the Book of the 
Dead 

As I roll my ball of clay ! 

St. Louis, 1904 



THE CALL OF THE WINDS 

I FAIN would laugh with all the laugh- 
ing w^orld, 
And let the relic memories be furled 
With banners of crusades and laid away 
With tomes and trumpery of the older 

day; 
With crooning history, Time's romance, 

be done — 
Let ages die, and wake the ' 'On and on ! " 

And yet in dreaming hours, despite my 
will. 

Past friends and fading pictures linger still. 

Old wars with all their wrongs, cssars 
and kings 

With all their crimes and ancient clamor- 
ings, 

And troubadours, and pirates of the sea — 

Seem still to mock our lauded Liberty. 

Somehow when I would tempt the tune- 
ful strings 

I find them fraught with hymns of buried 
things — 

I hear the cadence of the awkward flail. 

And Indians moaning on the bison-trail. 

The clanking enginery of modern strife 
Profanes the obsequies of sweeter life. 



Continued 

There's grandeur in the press of steam 
and steel, 

But heart-beats in the throb of oaken 
keel ! 

And on the winds a runic wail of doom 

Pursues the tattered sail and trembling 
boom 

Of one-time stately ships. The hulks, all 
mute, 

Swing off in funeral pomp ; and in pursuit 

The squadron hounds of fretful Com- 
merce bay 

Their greed of wealth and ruthless pride 
of prey ! 

A golden glory filled the sea and air 
When Turner saw the failing Temeraire ! 
No harmonies contest the sunset fire. 
The fondest fancies haunt the Autumn 

pyre; 
So, when the Muses seek the tender 

theme. 
They find the treasure passing toward a 

dream ! 

New York, 1903 



LIBERTY BELL 

AH, here is our Liberty Bell, 

Paraded in pride of old ! 
I would that my tongue could dwell 

In the turbulent times she tolled. 

I would it were mine to reveal. 

In a reverent rage of song, 
The secrets her sibyls conceal 

And the motley and militant throng. 

Forgetful of things that be, 

I turn to the long ago — 
To the years ere men were free 

And the world moved on but slow; 

To the days of ruffle and wig 
And leathern-apron and hose; 

Of flint-lock, horn and brig, 
And the spirit that went with those. 

My mind is peopled of courts 
And powder and silk and sword; 

The hound and the falcon sports. 
And pride of lady and lord. 

I witness the hurrying groups 

To the hall of the prophet's light, 

And the red and the rags of troops 
In the dim-lit streets of night. 



Continued 

But thou, old Liberty Bell, 
Attuned to the patriot-shout, 

Didst ring for a tyrant's knell, 
And ring till freedom was out! 

Now loud shall Liberty sing 
Te Deums around her shrine; 

And nations bent shall bring 
Their altars unto thine ! 

Philadelphia, 1904 

JAPAN THE BEAUTIFUL 

THE ghost of grace through heathen 
tides and times. 
Hath kept her vigil 'neath thy trem- 
bling stars! 
Thy cherry-blossom cheeks, in peace 
or wars. 
Beam in rapport with all thy sweetest 
chimes ! 

New states may grow where fallen states 
have been ; — 
The pulse of Beauty, dead, shall beat 

no more! 
Thine not the cause of wall and tower 
and store; — 
Thy citadels are laid in hearts of men ! 



THE DRAGON CITY 

IN this unchanging shaft-hght hour by 

hour, 
Pent in and comfortless, the city's power 
Goes grinding on around me ; and the sky, 
A somber square the empty winds go by. 
Scarce marks the transit of the night or day. 
A milHon unfixt spirits take their way 
Beneath my keep, nor seem to reckon why 
They tempt a dragon, follow far, and die! 

I marvel I could quit the peace of fields 
For this, where all our fervent sowing 

3delds 
But mortal thorns to weave us penal 

crowns ! 
I have not learned the tenets of the towns : 
I seem disarmed where every man con- 
tends. 
Denying virtue and rejed:ing friends! 

Where I have wandered, on the northern 

hills, 
A Presence full of power and promise fills 
Our hearts with common joy; and there 

we learn 
How comradeship and simple trust will 

turn 
The fear of beasts and enmity of men. 
But what avails the code I gathered then ? 



Continued 

The God of farther places here they scorn, 
And flout the solemn faiths that / have 
sworn ! 

Were men but rude, like some unlettered 

breed. 
Then might I stand, as one who knew the 

creed ; 
But here are sinuous ways and sultan 

smiles, 
Soft insolence, diplomacies and wiles. 
These subtler crafts plain men can never 

know ; 
And fall as falls the unresisting snow! 

From this most pitiless of human mills 

I wonder I am not among the hills, 

Whose faithful benediction followed me ! 

And I am pained of infidelity 

At parting from the pines and golden 
sands 

.And old-time friends — the warm and rug- 
ged hands 

Of long-true friends! I wonder I should 
roam 

lihts way! My heart is there — and there 
is ho?nel 

Chicago, 1906 



AFTER THE DAYS OF LABOR 

A RHAPSODY 

AFTER the days of labor— 

The nettling cares, discordant necessity. 

The pettiness that unmakes men — 

Out! Out of it all! 

Out to the remedies of God ! 

Air unmonopolized! 

Trees in peace-tussle with the wind I 

Grass, flowers, rivers, waves, bird-songs- 

Uncorporated, untrusted ! 

In with these! Out with tedium! 

Off with burdens of past days! 

Out with fears of future days! 

No Past, no Future ! Today, only Today ! 

Sunshine, soft clouds, laughing voices! 

Only Today! Enough! 

And no concern ! 

But a step to Heaven, and the way is free, 

Free to all men — as all is free 

To hare, finch, ant, squirrel, perch and 

pelican and bee! 
All free! 
This, this only, this shall be the life for 

mankind — 
This the life to make men and make 

women ! 
This shall yield high thoughts, bright 

hope, prophetic words, divine art; 
Faith, charity, godliness, comradeship! 



Continued 

This shall purge all meanness, rivalry, 
exaction, hunger for the unattainable! 
All is attained — attained by all ! 
No gold shall add to its richness! 
No world-comfort shall add to its delight ! 
You who sleep, awake ! 
You in the sick-ward, you in the world- 
war. 
Surrender ! Capitulate ! 
Sell that thou hast and give to the poor! 
It 's giving waste! 

Surrender to sky and wave and wind ! 
Out to God's remedies! — 
And live! 

Indiana, 1901 



Cj3 Ct3 



THE PILGRIM 

PALE, pure Star of the North, 

I come to thee, burning of cities; 

To thee as to a shrine, I come ! 

Low, cool Mist of the North, 

I seek thy inviolable veil — 

Within thy frail cloistering w^alls 

Fold me ere I fail utterly. 

A slag of man, I come, contrite ! 

Keen, calm Wind of the North, 

Blow out of the hills! I've need of thee! 

In thy long, cool tresses lay my fevered 

brow — 
Fevered of cities and of sin ! 
One touch of thy fingers. Wind of the 

North, 
And I am free — 

Free of the purple sin of the South, 
Free of the slime of the cities; 
Free of the falser Gods of crowds! 
Stript of all falsity I come surrendering 
To thee, deep, blue Sky of the North ! 
At the fast ship's prow. Star of the North, 
In old faith, in old love, 
I come, cast down to thee ! 

On Shipboard 



AFTER TROUBLOUS WINDS 

AFTER the troublous winds have wear- 
ied and turned to sleep, 

I lie on the cool beach-sands, in the sound 
of the waves of the deep ; 

And the waves of the firm dead-sea, that 
carry the gray of the sky. 

Bear earnest of peace to me though the 
years and the worlds go by. 

The waves of the wind-reft bay, that re- 
flect and reject as they will, 

Unvexed and unfaltering roll and the law 
of control fulfill; — 

And this is the life that will be when our 
fears are folded away — 

For the mind is the wide-swung sea, and 
the sky of the soul is gray. 

Little Traverse Bay, 1907 



Cj3 C?3 



Ashes and Embers 



WHEN the first floods had newly quit the 
earthy 
And annals of the world lay in the loofn^ 
Awaiting time and thunders^ — to consume 

The desert hours a Nile boy in his ttiirth 

Carved a rude shard of clay to deck his girth. 
And this the paleolith left of the doofn 
Of centuries, or scarab from the tomb 

Of Pharaoh — treasures now of priceless 
worth. 

So I must wonder, when I shape my shrine 
Of feral verse — though no intrinsic good. 
Will it be buried by the years and then. 
As legend of the long-departed wood. 

Be saved to relish like some ancient wine 
Or relic of old sunken Stavoren? 



ct] ctj 



MEMORIAL 

A SLEEP is on the northern town 

Of Hearts-beat-slow; 

The very steeples wear a frown — 

The gardener is low ! 

Ton, bells! Toll, bells! 

By all the slave is scorned. 

Toll, bells! Toll, bells! 

By none will he be mourned. 

Old time he bore his country's flag — 

Forgotten now. 

A shroud will cover him, a rag; 

A scar his brow. 

Toll, bells! Toll, bells! 

A soldier more has slept; 

Toll, bells! Toll, bells! 

The soldier has been wept ! 

He knew no kindly look or word 

Through'laboring hours; 

He muttered curses, all unheard, — 

And planted flowers ! 

Toll, bells! Toll, bells! 

No wreath is on bis grave. 

Toll, bells! Toll, bells! 

Who waits to mourn the slave ? 

Toll for the slave ! Toll for the brave I 
(His curse a flag! ) 



Continued 

His gardens bless the child and knave! 

( His shroud a rag ! ) 

Toll, bells! Toll, bells! 

What though the slave is scorned ? 

Toll, bells! Toll, bells! 

For him who is not mourned ! 

Harbor Springs, 1908 



Cj3 It} 



VENICE 

IT has been mine to know, in younger 
days, 

That love, in fullness, finds no utterance; 

No mortal word can serve, much less en- 
hance 

A perfed: thing. The wondrous Nippon 
vase 

Desponds my tongue; the while to ruder 
clays 

Of dull unpromising, the Muses dance 

And wake with hearts of wild exuberance! 

So Fancy weaves on umber warp her 
praise ! 

No song of mine confirms that I have seen 
San Marco's opal dome and wept be- 
fore 
The Campanile's fall. I have not 
sung 
Ca d'Oro's grace nor of the Hght serene 
That never was on others' seas, Mag- 
gior 
Venezia ! — to me thy bells have rung. 

1907 



TO GEORGE GORDON BYRON 

THOU cursed of all the world for want- 
ing God, 
And blessed of God with gifts all but 

divine ; 
So might one hour thy smallest worth 
be mine 
I 'Id fill that hour with praise of thee. No 

rod, 
However cruel, would stay my tongue; 
no sod 
With all its fearsome coldness I 'Id de- 
cline. 
Enough one leaf of laurels that are 
thine — 
One tear of those that bathe the paths you 
trod. 

So sure the change of mortal hearts and 

times, 
So great the final mead of stings you 

bore — 
Who can but envy you the spear? Thy 

rhymes 
Of bleeding heart are saved to pay thy 

score ; 
But I may bear my cross to calvary, 
Nor rise by truth to immortality. 

(On the fly-leaf of The Castaway) 



LOUISIANA 

OUT of the ash of Ages 
Damp with the tide of Time, 
Over the reeking pages 
Red with the Heathen Crime — 
Here hath the forest Fable 
Fought with the corpse of Fear, 
Building a barracked gable 
Learned of a Savage leer. 

Spite of the mountain and torrent, 
Huron and hunger and bear; 
Fraying in plagues abhorrent. 
Minding of Midasan blare — 
Jesuit, knight and trader, 
Crozier and steel and skin, 
Fool-of-the-Fountain and raider. 
Founders of Faith and Sin — 
Chanted their Molochite Aves 
On through the wilds of the Years, 
Laying their laws as lavas 
Hot with the blood and the tears ! 

In mounds of a Memor}^ faded. 
The Kingdoms planted their feet; 
The stream where the bittern waded 
Thronged of a throbbing fleet. 
Mine and Timber and Meadow 
Meet their debt to the Dead, 



Continued 

And over the shame and the shadow 
The Sachem of Peace is led! 

Hewer and digger and tinker, 
Hammer and hoe and shear; 
Loaner and lover and thinker. 
Poet and painter and seer — 
Shoveled the sand to building. 
Tethered the river to power. 
Pounded the rock to gilding — 
And looked on Temple and Tower! 

St. Louis, 1904 



($ ^ 



GAT ES OF BRASS 

A SINGLE taper, flaming dim and low. 
Played fitfully on relic altar-gold; 
Thru windows wrought with miracles 
of old 

Fell faint the saffron of the afterglow. 

Before the penance-bench Sir Hardistan, 
Scarce more than youth, of sturdy limb 

and fair, 
Knelt down as under longer years' de- 
spair 
That marked his brow with age ere age 
began. 

Within the shadow stooped the solemn 
priest, 
In patience with the sorrows of the 

years — 
His cup of life o'erfilled of others' tears. 
Had spilled his tragedy as theirs increased. 

''Sir Knight, I keep the refuge of the 
poor — 
Here knees of plaintive misery are bent 
When worldly wares and light of life 
are spent. 
Thou'rt not of these, but yet in strength 
secure." 



Continued 

"Father, I wander thru the endless night. 
And the pale moon to me appears but 

rare. 
I seek, the last, thy famed candle-flare 
To light my steps and stumbling steed 
aright." 

**What meanest thou. Sir Knight? — Hast 
naught of home?" 
"Aye, Father, home — such home as all 

men seek. 
And wife and child, and stables of the 
sheik. 
And gold to grace atriumphryof Rome." 

"Grieve not. Sir Knight, if erst thy joust- 
ing failed." 
"No conflid: but a conquest, holy one; 
The bravest have engaged me and are 
done 
With tournaments, whilst I am victor 
hailed." 

"Find'st thou no weal in neighbor, friend 

or kin?" 
"Thy pardon, sire — thou speak' st in 

language worn. 
Can mortal fellowship be bred of scorn ? 



Continued 

The wolf am I; the whimpering folds 
are men." 

"Mayhap thy alms are sown to thankless 
soil. 
"Aim? Alms? Wouldst fling thy beads 

to craven oaves? 
My gift is steady steel, outlasting loaves ! 
But haste! — the serpent Night doth loose 
her coil!" 

"Haste romps, Sir Knight, without the 
cloister gates — 
With such as thou on worldly roads it 

runs, 
In vain pursuit of far retreating suns! 
My humble lamp will serve but him who 
waits. 

"The Sangreal lay not the wanton's way! 
God's love for love; His mercy for 

thine own! 
Turn back whence thou hast come — 
unarmed, alone! 
Beyond the east awaits the dawn of da}^ ! ' ' 

1907 



THE ODALISK 

OFTTIMES in these our passion-resting 

hours, 
When the Hght-mist of early twihght 
Veils the spectral mosque-tips, 
And all the silver bells in still suspense 
Await the towered muezzin's call 
To prayer — the soft dew-gathering time 
When rose-perfumes from our seraglio 

garden 
Float low and deep upon my idle sense — 
Then have I dreamed a dream. 
Though it be all a fancy-fabric, 
Makes for peace to you and me, Fatima. 

I have dreamed of other times and lands, 
Of far-called women freely born — 
Free to choose and free of any master 
And of Moslem power — all save Christian 

creeds. 
In these, my reveries, the winds 
From over seas will bear the sobs 
Of childless wives, and then the cries 
Of many children left of mothers 
Weeping for the fathers strange ! 
I hear of marriage-beds of brides unloved 
And maidens solitary all their days 
In pining for some heart they move not; 
And it has come to me — ah, truly false — 
That those most virtuous are most bereft. 



Continued 

Without abode or any resting place 
Or sympathy's caress to bless their sleep — 
And this because of goodness and the hope 
Of some out-lying, loveless Paradise to 

come! 
So, I am told that in that country ruled 
Without a king, the ways of freedom 
Are not free, and woman's liberty 
Is woman's reigning woe. 
Her fickle fuiy toys unsavingly. 
And, being free, men turn unscathed 
Away, weary of play, to be the masters 
Men can be ! And woman — 
Worn of trifling, stale of beauty — lies 
Remembered in her obloquy, or, worse, 

forgot ! — 
A slave abjed: to self-invented custom! 

And you and I, Fatima — we would not, 
From our sweet certainty and guardian 

walls. 
Go in those ways of freedom-woe 
An hour's part — but we should rend 
Our matted hair, to be forgiven our dal- 
liance, 
And would turn our troubled faces back 
To him, the Radiant One, our master! 

1906 



MY TAPER'S RECOMPENSE 

MY candle burned for long to those fair 
days 
When chivalry and modest worth held 

true 
The scale of life; and then would I 
pursue 
In fancy backward up those older ways, 
To peace! The modern fabric wants the 
grays 
And love-care that our mother's sam- 
pler knew; 
The world takes on a false, fantastic 
hue. 
And hearts and homes are wrought of 
sordid clays. 

But here are truth and sweetness of the old 
Set with the art and splendor of the new, 
Like strands of silver thread among the 
gold; 
That silence-charm, the heritage of 
few, 
Frail beauty and the purity of tears — 
All saved in thee to pay my waiting years ! 

''The Oaks," PoNTiAC, 1908 



CLOISTER BEADS 

I BESEECH Thee, Mother of Christ, to 
know Thy will : 

Have I not loved Thee and obeyed, and 
kept the vigil, 

And denied my flesh thus long, so long! 

Have I not thought to save my soul spot- 
less of the world? — 

My tear-burned eyes are weary looking 
up to Thee. 

Thou hast been forgotten never, yet — 

and yet — 
(Forgive me. Mother!) I am lonely — 

lonely as the grave. 
Passing joys, like unto Heaven, I have 

found 
In blossoms of the Spring and sunlight on 

the snow and soothing rain — 
All these, and prayer has been a moment's 

solace. 

Mother Merciful, forgive if I offend — 

But why am I unhappy always? Am I 
tried and wanting. 

While those others who have knelt to 
their own beings. 

Laugh so joyously and are content? 

They know Thee not, and yet, not know- 
ing, have they pleased Thee? 



Continued 

Dost Thou truly dwell in Heaven apart— 

or art Thou Love? 
And is the voice of mortal love Thy voice ? 
Strange earth-songs call me, urgent as the 

w^ill to live, 
And I forget. Then I remember Thee. 
But as I turn from him my heart is rent! 

Mother of Christ, hast Thou not loved ? 

Hast Thou notknow^n the peace of moth- 
erhood ? 

And canst Thou not forgive Thy novices? 

At night and when the stars go out at dawn. 

At noon and every hour I crave what is 
forbid — 

And, weeping, I am frail and have not 

prospered ! 
Must I fail and die — hungering as some 

hidden flower? 
Thou art so far — so far from me — and he 

is near. 
If I could know that Thou hast sent him ! 
HastThoM ? Hast Thou ? Mother of God, 

/ love him so ! 

1908 



RETRIBUTION (Jungle Law) 

IN a far-gone day of the feral Dawn, 
Where the jungle code began, 
A lion lived with a boast of brawn 
And the growl of a brute-heart clan. 

He took for his mate a tiger-girl 
For her beautiful coat and eyes; 
She left her dream in a passion-whirl. 
And cried as a tiger cries — 

For the jungle law was Feed and own^ 

And Fight and the fawn is yours! 

And the doe and the tiger-mate could 

moan 
In vain for the life that lures. 

And the jungle filled with the mongrel- 
breed, — 

For the mother-lust must live ; 

And the young ones grew by the lion's 
greed 

That took where it would not give ! 

Her heart went out to a bengal's rune. 
And the stars stood by in her cause ; 
She sang at night to the desert moon 
And sighed for the love-made laws. 



Continued 

But the jungle law and the mongrel-breed 
Were strong in the jungle land; 
A God was not in the lion's creed — 
And two bloods stained the sand! 

The brute-king roared of the deed he'd 

done, 
And the mongrel whelps bowed low; 
A tiger-mate and a chosen one 
Lay stark in the Bombay glow ! 

Detroit, 1909 



Ct] CJ3 



THY LOVE THE PILOT BE 

ROUGH is the way of the sea, 
And tossed are the ships amain — 
Swayed to the wind and the lea 
And back to the course again . 

Shivered the hulk with the weight 
Of the waves that charge the beam ; 
Awash are the decks with hate 
That licks for the open seam. 

The binnacle dips to the locks 
Of the surf, from side to side; 
And over the sprit the rocks 
And the siren of sands deride. 

The hour the seaman sleeps 
The lorelei songs allure; 
The wife of a sailor weeps 
And winds mock over the moor. 



Our Life is the name of the sea. 
And the craft is a mortal man; 
The waves are Inconstancy, 
And the rocks — to evade, who can 

So Truth be the oaken keel. 
And Faith an unfaltering sail; 
My honor the bulkhead steel. 
Thy Mercy the yielding mail — 



Continued 

And mine is the compass true — 
A heart that holds to a star 
Which shines in the hope of you 
And the buoy of the harbor-bar» 

Fear not if the mind of me 

In the wrack of the world be tried; 

Thy Love may the pilot be — 

My Soul comes home with the tide ! 

To V. L., 1909 



C?3 Ct] 



THE ABSENT HEART OF ME 

THE low sun paints the willow rows, 
Their shadows lengthening eastward fall 
A purple tracery on the snows; 
And Spring is here — but that is all ! 

A silence broods upon the farm — 
Sweet, sweet as some forgotten song 
After the battle's mad alarm: 
Such peace! — and yet I long and long! 

Here dwell the memories of the past, 
A tribe as true as God has made. 
And friends that yield their honor last; — 
And yet my breast must bear a blade ! 

This house keeps nature's wondrous plan. 
Old books and bronze and native art — 
All things to move the soul of man; 
But voiceless to a stricken heart ! 

Ah, wealth and crafts of men, how frail^ 
And empty of all constancy ! 
Yea, even grace of God must fail ! — 
You are the absent heart of 7ne! 

The Willows, 1909 



MY HEART IS HOME 

AND now mad Winter comes again, 
The wild winds sweep the stubble-fields ; 
Against the gray the willows strain. 
Blow, blizzard, blow ! My heart is healed ! 

The gnomes in fiendish carnival 
Turn chaos loose upon the farm; 
The porches creak, the dead limbs fall. 
It snows — but Love is safe from harm ! 

The wolves of winter charge the doors. 
Our shutters shake like bones of Death; 
The friends heap wood, the back-log roars, 
And old regrets — no more, Sweet Breath ! 

The urn against the chimney sings. 
Old books unlock their treasuries; 
The wind persuades the 'cello strings 
To moan — In souls are jnelodiesl 

As Order makes the charm of home, 
Its blessing now is sweet Content ; 
Its glory — Rest thou, all who roam. 
And Love, our love, its sacrament ! 

The Willows, 1909 



THE POET'S SHIFT 

I SAW them there behind the glass — 
Red rose, sweet-pea and violet, 

Lily and pink and mignonette — 
Persuading me ; but I must pass. 

What would she give if she could know 
It hurt my heart to pass them so? — 

When she loves rose and mignonette 
And dotes upon the violet! 

What would I give if these could grow 
Along the wayside as I pass! — 

And not behind a window-glass 
For profit's sake or idle show! 

But summer comes and some day yet 
We'll gather worlds of mignonette, 

Where flowers are free and summers long! 
Till then my love must live in song ! 

Detroit, 1909 



Ct3 Ct] 



UNTO THE LEAST 

THE melancholy nights and days of pain, 
Travail of poverty and solitude, 
The innocent contempt from all the 
rude — 
Whom I love well — must long ago have 

slain 
My stubborn faith ; but for persistent stain 
That saved my need of prayer's deep 

interlude. 
'Tis w^ell the faults that utterly exclude 
The world of men, God's ministry retain ! 

A thousand crises in my years have bade 
Me take with falser gods the luresome 
meed 
Of praise and friends and Plenty's 
fallow ease; 
But futile penitence hath left me sad 
With sorrows that no laughing fellows 
heed ; 
And, lone, I hear the message of the 
seas! 

1908 



C!3 1$ 



THE POET VAGRANT 

WERE I to die this hour or some near 

day — 
Be stricken quick upon the way I've trod, 
Say not /' 'Tis sad the youth has passed 

away, 
So reft of fortune and so far from God." 

Say not in pity that I might have had 
The gift and favor of the rich and great — 
But that mischosen insolence forbade 
My fellows' warning of a hapless fate. 

Grieve not that I have spent my years in 

dream. 
And drifted listless as the vagrant brook — 
Have sought me substance in the things 

that seem, 
And left to earth the semblance of a book. 

What though I have not where to lay 

my head. 
Nor marble weight upon my body's 

grave; — 
Of this I make no moan when I am dead 
And you possess the worth I failed to 

save. 

So be it I am soon forgot of men 

And laid in alien soil by stranger hands; — 



Continued 

The pines above my head will mourn me 

then, 
And waves intone my requiem on the 

sands. 

Say, rather, this: **He chose to make his 

friends 
In wood and field, with bird and flower 

and tree; 
Began his labor where our labor ends. 
And saved — the faith in immortality." 

Good Hart, 1908 



C^ Cj3 



THE LARGER DREAM 

WHEN winds are rioting upon the drift- 
ed hills, 

And the keen stars defy the frosts of win- 
ter; 

Weary with the war of men and paltry 
wage, 

I lay me down to sleep. In that uncon- 
sciousness 

I know a peace surpassing words. 

Age and the weight of years are not with 
me. 

Nor yet are angels with monotony of 
harps, 

Nor vanity of jewels and plentitude of 
mortal crafts; 

But youth is everywhere ! and Spring and 
happy skies, 

And waters dancing in the potent sun ! 

Cities do I see, but far away and uninhab- 
ited, and wraith 

As gossamer — domes of inobtrusive hue. 

And minarets of phantom mosques 

As fleeting as the forms of miracle ! 

Clad scantily in Attic boy's attire. 

And lithe of limb and crowned of myrtle 

vs^reaths — 
I gather blossoms frorri the cherry trees 

of far Japan 



Continued 

And fling them wanton to the Blessed 

Damosel! 
I walk with Virgil in the vales of Italy 
And follow Jaques through the Arden 

forest 
To the cool springs, and the frail pipes 
That Pan is plucking for his instruments. 

In light of noon and perfume of laburnum 
Wondrous birds of plumage swing with 

gladness 
On primeval boughs. And as they live, so 

also I! 
No labor have I dreamed that is not joy- 
ous. 
And no pain appears to pall the laughter 
Of the land of Sleep. The very shadows 
Are a benedidiion, filled with color's fer- 
vency. 
The day encompasses eternity ! The uni- 
verse 
Of stars and spheres incomparable 
Are toys of hand ! I toss Capella carelessly 
And dance with Virgo at the Dragon's 

mouth ; 
Astride Camelopard we scatter flowers 
Upon the Milky-way and fill the Dippers 
At Aquarius' fountain ! 
No heat is vexing and no cold avails 



Continued 

To still the heart's persistency of song, 
Or stay the ardor of the love outlasting 
time! 

Then I must wake again upon the world 
To find the unrest of the dreams of kings ! 
And I am sad — and will the Night to 

come 
That knows no end ! . . . . But, 
Here are homely tasks for every hour. 
And there — my gray-gowned books 
That wove the fancies! So my creed is 

born — 
And I am comforted as with a prayer: — 
The After-world is builded large 
Of little symbols gathered here ! 
And I could gladly live on earth — 
In child-like wisdom — yet to know more 

wonders; 
And in patient service — thus to grow 
More weary for the Larger Dream! 



THE END 



Four titles indexed were juvenile curiosities, and the 
book is deemed improved by their omission from 
the pages. The Author. 



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